


magic lost, magic found

by Nanimok



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Knowledge of the game is appreciated but not needed for reading, M/M, Mage!Markus, Soft Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Soft Markus (Detroit: Become Human), The Witcher 3 Spoilers, Whump, Witcher!Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: “Something draws us together,” Markus says. “Even when we’re apart, it tethers us back like strings tugging on our cells. But I can never be certain if it’s a true feeling, or if it’s merely a bit of mischief by a djinn. Haven’t you ever wondered, Connor?”“Of course, I do,” Connor says. “I’ve always wondered, but we know the lengths magic can travel to, especially on our own body… and surely we’d know if…”“I don’t think that’s something we can trust ourselves with,” Markus says. “There’s a reason magic is called as such.”





	magic lost, magic found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MahoShoujoEren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MahoShoujoEren/gifts).

> Based on the quest in the witcher 3 - The Last Wish. No prior knowledge of Witcher is needed to read this however.

Since meeting Markus and his love of zapping himself from city to city, teleportation doesn’t bother him much. Nines, his twin brother, absolutely hate it with a passion, but it’s starting to become Connor’s favourite mode of transport—purely in how quickly it gets him to where he wants to be. There’s always a hint of vertigo that slams into him, however, no matter how skillfully Markus conjures it. Connor hopes that it will fade with time, but so far, only the conjurer seem resistant to its effects.

Markus’s portal takes them to the northern mountains of Ard Skellige, up on the jagged cliffs, covered with snow that crunched underneath their boots. The frost bites at his cheek, a drastic change from the humidity of Ingdalen’s forest, and the heavy weight of the ocean’s body pressing on them as they swim through wreckage. The wind whistles in a way that could be peaceful here, if you stand and listen to it. Connor would savour the moment—him alone with Markus in a picturesque setting—if Markus hadn’t seem troubled by his own request.

So, Connor shakes off the last vestiges of dizziness, and drags his feet to where Markus is squinting over the cliffs. 

“Reminds me of the time we went looking for the golden dragon and an avalanche swept us off the trail,” Markus says. 

“I’m not sure why you are reminiscing in a such a fond tone,” Connor says. “Snow ended up in places it shouldn’t be and we ended up hanging off a bridge that was slipping by its final threads.”

Markus raises one eyebrow. “We? You were digging your fingers in my waist hard enough to puncture my kidneys.”

“Yes, well,” Connor says. “I eventually got us out of there, didn’t I? And without the use of your finnicky portals.”

“You like my portals,” Markus says, chuckling. “Don’t even try to hide that fact. Besides, the chasm below us was breath-taking, in a way. An endless, bleak, pool of possibilities.”

Since Connor was gripping Markus’s waist, he couldn’t complain about the view as well. 

Then Markus’s face slips into thought, to a place where Connor can’t reach no matter how desperately he tries. It’s coming out more often lately. Whenever they’re getting too close, whenever Connor stands too near, Markus is always the first one to pull back and shut himself out. 

Connor has a layer of snow on the hood of his armour, but it’s only know that he starts to feel the cold. 

“You never did tell me why we’re looking for the djinn,” Connor says, patting the ice off his shoulder braces.

“Hmm,” Markus says. “Thought the great detective would’ve already figured it out by now.”

“I’m guessing you want to tame the djinn,” Connor says. “A highly volatile, malicious djinn. A djinn that’s attracted to mischief and power, and lo and behold, the man himself.”

“Being inherently mischievous doesn’t mean that it’s malicious,” Markus tells him.

“In this case, it unfortunately does,” Connor says. “Every case of djinn ever recorded has always been in an event of chaos.”

“Would the encounter _ be _recorded if it hadn’t ended in chaos?” Markus asks. “A benevolent djinn could easily be written as an entity that fits a better narrative. We might encounter a very pleasant djinn. You never know.”

“I highly doubt it.”

Markus taps a finger on his chin. “What was that saying liked to parrot off…”

“Markus,” Connor says tiredly.

“Right,” Markus says, smug. “Numerically speaking, there’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place.”

Amused by his flurry of gestures, Markus brings one hand to pat the snow off Connor’s other shoulder, ignoring the ones sprinkled on his own. Even through his layers of metal, chainmail, and Markus’s own thick leather gloves, Connor can feel the warmth of his hand radiating through. 

“You don’t think I’m capable of taming a djinn?” Markus asks. “I’ve almost done it before.”

“And you were almost _ killed, _” Connor says. “I don’t understand why taming one is a pressing issue right now.”

Markus rolls eyes. “But you already do, Connor, you’re just stubborn to admit it. A djinn’s power is priceless to a mage. It’ll be handy in case anything happens while we’re helping the sorceresses escape Novigrad.”

“Not at the cost of risking your life.”

“Connor,” Markus says, his voice exasperated. Having no more snow to brush off, Markus’s hands settle to righting the straps of Connor’s armour. “It won’t come to that. You can’t… you can’t shield me forever.”

“Considering the lifespan of a witcher then yes,” Connor says. “Yes, I can.”

“Witchers die younger than mages. Your fatality rate are thrice ours.”

“Yes, but I’m careful.”

“You’re reckless, is what you are. So you’ll just follow me everywhere I go, will you?” Markus says. “Grind my herbs and make sure my gloves are strapped on tight before I leave the door? Why don’t you conjure up my charms too, since you think me so incapable of doing so.” 

“I’m not conceding on this,” Connor says. “You’re trying to provoke me but I won’t rise to it. It goes down bitter like a potion, doesn’t it, but don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Hank told me most potions are an acquired taste.”

Their gazes lock in a challenge, each willing the other to back down.

After a while, Markus sighs. “Have you ever considered that you’ve misplaced all your devotion?”

Connor knows defeat when he sees it. “Never,” he says simply, because it’s crystal clear to him, whenever it’s about Markus. 

“Hank’s right about you, you know,” Markus mutters under his breath. “You could wrestle a vengeful griffin with your bare hands and win out of pure stubbornness.”

“Griffins mate for life and will defend their mates to the death. They’re often considered the embodiment of loyalty and courage, so it’s really quite sweet of Hank to say that,” Connor says, biting his cheek. “Thank you, Hank. I personally agree with that statement.”

Instead of smiling, like he always does whenever Connor fires off his bestiary knowledge, Markus only looks resigned. 

“Markus…” Connor says. “Did I do something wrong?”

“_ No,” _ Markus says immediately. “Connor, no. It isn’t you, it’s…” 

Markus looks up at him, the corners of his eyes creasing like he’s in pain. 

“Something draws us together,” Markus says. “Even when we’re apart, it tethers us back like strings tugging our cells. But I can never be certain if it’s a true feeling, or if it’s merely a bit of mischief by a djinn. Haven’t you ever wondered, Connor?”

“Of course, I do,” Connor says. “I’ve always wondered, but we know the lengths magic can travel to, especially on our own body… and surely we’d _ know _if…”

“I don’t think that’s something we can trust ourselves with,” Markus says. “There’s a reason magic is called as such.”

It shouldn’t feel like a glove made from needles is squeezing his heart, but it does. Connor had control of a djinn once, and even then, he still messed up.

“This is about by last wish, isn’t it?” Connor drops his eyes. “You’ll never forgive me for forgetting my wish, will you?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Connor,” Markus says, his expression softening. “I suspect the djinn is responsible the memory loss either way. Knowing everything _ but _ the _ exact _ words said? Seems a little mischievous to me.” Markus looks at Connor, then he strokes the back of his hand down the side of Connor’s neck. “Still, I wonder.” 

Connor turns into the touch. “I understand,” he says, even though his wound is gaping raw. “You want to ask this djinn to take that wish back. I’m sorry. I made that wish in a high-stress situation without your consent.” 

No amount of time they spend after will change that fact. 

“I know you meant well. I know you meant to save my life,” Markus says. “But you asked that djinn to bind us together forever, and I need to _ know _—when the djinn’s magic is gone—if we still have magic left of our own.” 

There’s a second of debate before Markus takes his hand and laces his own finger through it.

“I want this to be _ ours _ , Connor,” Markus says. “Ours, and _ only _ours.”

Markus’s face is so close to his own right now. Connor wishes he could lean in and kiss the worry lines away. Connor wishes that the world would stop piercing it's concerns into their personal little bubble.

Connor should stop wishing for things. It’s what got them here in the first place.

“You’re right,” Connor says. “You’re completely right.” 

“No more running away after this, I promise.” Markus squeezes their hands together and gives him a shaky smile. “Still with me, Connor?” 

To have Markus turn to him while they rest by a campfire. Connor can't imagine anything he wants more. 

“Wherever you go.” Connor squeezes back. “I’ll follow.”

* * *

Amos var Ypsis, one of the only known mages to tame a djinn and harness its powers. He set off for Skellige one day, and like all good legends, he was never heard from again. Between the wreckage found in their underwater dive and the snapped deck jutting out of the craggy hills, Connor can piece his story together. 

This is why djinns need to be handled with constant vigilance. It can never attack it’s master, but it doesn’t need to. It’s possible that there was a storm, and var Ypsis said something inane, framing with it with the word ‘_ wish’ _and found himself falling from the sky. Indeed, his body is crushed under a toppled bookcase, but otherwise well preserved. 

Markus bites his cheek. “Always knew too much studying could kill you.”

He looks at Connor, clearly expecting an uproarious reception.

Connor rolls his eyes.

They melt the surrounding ice, unsticking him—and the bookcase—from the ground. Once unbound with a few incantations, the djinn’s seal reveals itself—a thick medallion humming with magic. 

Hauling the medallion on to the deck of the ship, Markus says, “Get ready. The djinn won’t be happy.”

A djinn is a being of pure energy. His Yrden sign could calm it to some degree, but it won’t slow it down, not to the degree that Markus can. Dimeritrium bombs are his best weapon—they block any kind of magic transformation caught in its blast for a sort duration. Even then, it only gets stronger as it weakens. Connor’s best bet, like usual, will be his speed and agility. Avoid its attacks, wait for Markus to contain it’s magic, jump in, slash, jump out. 

Rinse and repeat. 

The sky darken, and the air becomes stifling with energy. Connor tightens his hold on his silver sword, hand a bomb on his waist. Beside him, Markus’s magic crackles between his fingers. 

“On the count of three,” Markus says. “One. Two—”

A beam of blue light splits the medallion in half.

* * *

Electricity almost singes them. Almost. Connor tackles Markus out of the way, and rolls himself into position.

Smoke lingers on his tongue in a warning. 

Connor dances in and out the lightning Markus deflects, coming close enough for his hair to stand. The djinn is a cloud of malevolent energy, a feral beast with a growl of a thousand voices. It drags Connor into its body at any opportunity, shifting its pull whenever Connors comes too near. 

Connor needs to get close to attack it, but not too close or he’ll fall in. Even then, he can feel chills brushing his skin. Every bone in his body doubles its weight and his knees buckles. A whisper echoes from all direction, slow and insidious.

_ Power, _it says. 

He’s quick to lurch himself away, breathing heavily in the process. 

Connor needs to be more careful. Fall into the body of a djinn, and you’ll never come out; everyone knows this. 

But between the two of them, they’re wearing the djinn down. Slowly, ever so slowly, the djinn weakens, and Markus condenses it into a tight, infuriated sphere with patches of white slamming against its barriers.

“You master died before uttering his last wish,” Markus yells over the thunder of the clouds above them. “I can’t capture you, but we can struggle for all eternity—”

The boat underneath them rattles. Connor stabs his sword through the wooden panel for balance. 

“Or I can release you,” Markus says. “If you grant me one wish.” He tosses his head at Connor. “Do you see the binding between us?”

The djinn growls.

“Only a djinn can break another djinn’s spell. Remove this one, and you’ll be free.”

From a second, Connor thinks the djinn won’t submit. He has no doubt that Markus has a contingency plan since eternity with a djinn doesn’t seem like an appealing option. Then, a burst of magic slams into his veins. Connor digs his heels in, but it feels like his organs plummets and rises in quick successions. He stumbles back, disorientated.

The only indication Markus gives that he’s affected is from the slight tick in his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is ragged. 

“You’re free,” Markus says, and he drops his arms.

A blast of energy sweeps through them, a force of blinding light and wind that pushes him backwards. Distantly, Connor hears a glass shatter, and he sees a shadow waft in Markus’s direction.

_ Power. _

Connor lurches forward before collapsing. _ No! _ His legs shake, but he forces himself a step forward. _ You can’t have him! _

A claw buries itself in Connor’s chest. 

He hisses in pain. Even though Connor can’t _see it, _he can _feel_ _it_—sharp and jagged, tearing through his flesh, muffling his screams, and yanking his nerves out, one by one—

_ Power. _

It squeezes, digging its agonizing edges in deeper, and with one fluid motion it _ rips _—

* * *

Connor floats. 

Even though he’s standing, he floats.

He feels weightless, cushioned by a bed of clouds. Numb and helpless to the hand that pushes his head under. 

A thick and viscous liquid flows through his chest and settles into his lungs. Like one of his potions dredging through his blood vessels. It’s sludgy, and Connor finds it hard to swallow. It thickens and thickens, until Connor feels like he might explode, before it dissipates into air. 

He still feels submerged. Saturated. Crushed from all directions.

Closing his eyes, Connor sinks. 

* * *

Blinking, Connor finds Markus placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Storm’s over,” Markus says, nodding at the sky.

True to Markus’s words, the sky has cleared without Connor noticing it. It’s no longer dark and torrid, but a light shade of baby blue that’s always reminded Connor of—

He stops himself. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel right to keep going. 

“Yes,” Connor murmurs under his breath. “It’s all over.”

Markus touches his elbow with his fingertips. “We should sit,” he says, guiding them to the edge of the ship where the boarding bridge connects. “You look a bit dazed.” 

Connor clutches his hand. “I remember it now, Markus. I remember it all.”

“Sit first. Then you can tell me about it.”

“I… okay,” Connor says, repeating it to himself. “Okay.”

Their feet dangle on the edge, but Markus is sitting close enough that Connor doesn’t worry about either of them falling over. 

“Feel any better?”

“Slightly,” Connor says. “That was challenging. Not as challenging from when we first tried to tame a djinn, but…”

Markus grins. “Not really a fair comparison, is it? Half of Jericho felt our battle then. Now, I’m merely a bit tired…”

“A testament to our growth.”

“And a blessing to our future.”

They slip into a silence, as old and as comfortable as a well-worn pair of boots.

“Thank you for coming, Connor," Markus says. "I'd have had a much harder time doing it on my own." 

Connor huffs a small laugh. “I've always found it hard to say no to you." 

"Perhaps that will change now,” Markus says. “Now that the djinn's will no longer binds us together. Perhaps you won’t feel the need to hang on to my every word so often." 

Markus is trying to jest with him, for all the times Connor ran himself to the ground whenever Markus sent him on an errand, but his smile is too tentative, like it’s falling on the edges. Is it because Markus thinks Connor is no longer loyal to him? That Connor would abandon him now that they’re untethered?

Markus shouldn’t worry. Connor will always be loyal to him. Markus is a righteous and compassionate man. He’s courageous and kind. He’s willing to sacrifice himself for the safety of others.

Markus is someone worth dying for and Connor doubts that will ever change. 

_ Even if, _ Connor thinks, patting the hollowness in his chest, _ something inexplicably has. _

"Do you?" he asks. "Do you feel that anything's....different?" 

Markus taps on his knees. “Hmm…” Markus stretches, feeling his arms and legs. “I expected… I don't know what I expected, really," he says. "A little bit of dizziness. Slight vertigo maybe but…" 

Markus laughs to himself, and it’s light and airy, a private sort of relief. He shifts and when looks at Connor, his eyes are brighter than the snowy cliffs surrounding them.

"I thought... that maybe you'd become a stranger to me," Markus says. "That I'd look at you and not feel a thing." 

Connor closes his eyes. He wills himself a resolve of steel.

"But that's not true at all," Markus says, his voice soft and tender with awe. "Nothing's changed."

And the smile he gives Connor _ hurts _; because it's small and sweet and so, so hopeful. Filled with a lifetime of wishes and dreams and love that's within their reach—a chance to build something unimaginable in the grimy world they trawl in. 

Connor can have all that. He can have a lifetime with Markus, if he only said those words, if he only ignored the bleak pit in his stomach, and give Markus what he’s so clearly trying to find. It was so visceral before; loving Markus—wanting his good and his bad, his past and his future. Connor thought it would transcend magic as easily as it transcends time and dimension. 

But Connor can't—he can't lie to Markus. He feels removed where there should be elation. Like there’s a veil between the Connor that’s here, and the Connor that’s sitting beside Markus. None of his nerves are tingling. None of his senses are singing. None of his being is longing for Connor to move that critical inch closer. 

And after all this years of being together, if something was meant to have developed, then shouldn't it have blossomed between them already?

Markus is too important to him. Like Nines, but not like Nines. Different but important, even if Connor can’t quite pinpoint why. 

Connor can’t provide what Markus wants. Markus should know.

All he sees, when he looks at Markus, is nothing. 

"I'm sorry, Markus," Connor says softly. "But the magic's gone for me.”

It registers, after a second; traveling like a fissure splintering higher and higher on a glacier. 

“What?” Markus finally says.

He sounds like he’s in shock. 

Connor doesn’t reply. He only puts one hand on top of Markus’s and holds his gaze, baring his face for Markus to see, as he had done so many times in the past. 

He waits. 

Markus's eyes searches, and searches and searches, darting back and forth like he missed something the first time. His expression crumbles, twisting into something bitter, his face paling to match the snow, and he closes his eyes—like he’s in grief. 

Connor can hear his heart break—as if he'd physically cracked Markus's ribs open with his hands. 

"Connor," Markus says, and it's almost like he's pleading. "I don't—I don't understand. I still feel the same. How is that possible? We both have the same resistance and response to magic don't we? We should have the same tolerance, as witchers and mages. I thought that you—after everything we’ve been through—I don't—I don't get what this means—" 

He breaks off when his voice cracks, and even though he looked away fiercely, Connor saw his eyes shining in the light. 

For so long, they were inexplicably drawn into each other’s orbits. Clinging to each other, even when it displeased them to do so. Through thick and thin. Through fire and ice. Along with Nines, Markus is—was?—a constant in his life. It had kept Connor going more than once, pushed Connor to keep standing after collapsing on the ground. 

So what if the world hates him? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, because at the end of the day, he’ll still have Markus. 

Maybe Markus had thought the same. It must be devastating to have that gone. 

Is that why he look like he’s in so much pain?

"I suppose it means the djinn granted your wish," Connor says quietly. 

As if Connor had struck a physical blow, Markus reels back, sliding his hands out of Connor’s. He inhales and exhales audibly. “Right,” he says after a while. “_ Right _,” he whispers. “That’s what we wanted, wasn’t it…” His hands twitch on his lap. “We wanted to be free…”

Connor must be doing something wrong. Markus keeps looking away from him. 

“I’ve upset you,” Connor says. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—" 

“Don’t,” Markus says. He softens his voice. “Don’t apologise, Connor. You have nothing to apologise for—” Markus drags in a ragged breath. “I guess there’s nothing left for us here, huh?”

“Markus, wait,” Connor says, when Markus makes a hasty move to stand. “The magic’s gone—that’s true—but that doesn’t mean that I don’t like spending time with you. Don’t leave.”

Markus falters in his movement. 

Connor rubs the wooden panels of the floor. “Won’t you sit with me for a while?” he asks. 

Markus says nothing for a while. Then, he settles down in his seat, but he leaves a noticeable gap between them. “You’re not the only one who finds it hard to say no.” He pauses. “The djinn repeated your words, didn’t it?”

Connor tilts his head in question. 

“Will you tell me? Your last wish?”

“Of course,” Connor says._ “In life and in death. In chance and in fate_. _ I wish to protect Markus for always._”

“_Oh _,” Markus says quietly. “Oh.”

Would it be possible for a djinn to twist those words into a caricature of love? Possibly. Although, Connor doubts it, unless the djinn meant for Connor to protect Markus from heart break. But love itself comes with its own special kind of hurt. No matter how wonderful the rest of the relationship goes, it rises up and swells as easily as the hurt is forgiven. Surely the djinn couldn't replicate something as irrational and marvelous as that.

But Connor feels discordant with himself, his body ringing like an instrument long after the note is gone. The djinn must have found _some _way—a cruel show of gifting knowledge for the sole purpose of depriving it after—if only to explain the pit yawning in spots where Markus used to fill. 

It's a flawed, valueable thing, love is, isn't it? Connor thought he was already in love, to utter such a heartfelt vow. Offering such words to a djinn—it’s equivalent to tearing his protections and leaving his soul raw. And he would have already known enough of Markus then, wouldn’t he? He recalls already wishing to pledge himself for Markus’s purpose and his companionship. 

“I don’t see why I still can't keep my vow,” Connor says. “As I said, I’ll follow you wherever you go. In that aspect, nothing’s changed.”

“No,” Markus says, his voice thick and heavy. “I guess it hasn’t.”

The wind has died down, the djinn’s presence no longer amplifying its strength. It’s back to it’s quiet singing, the same whimsy tune from the start of their journey. Specks of snow sway in their vision, landing on their tiptoes before merging with the snow littering the deck. His sweat has cooled, and he's warm and dry under his armor.

_This is peace_, Connor thinks, tucking the memory away for the future, _or as close as they get to it._

Like before, the view is quite beautiful.

* * *

—

* * *

Nines spies her sitting in a secluded corner, hidden by the hood of her cloak and surrounded by bowls of fruit and steel mugs on the table. He ducks past the chatting and cheering patrons, and slides into the opposite seat.

“Something’s wrong with Connor,” Nines says. “He’s withdrawn and standoffish. He’s sleeping less. He goes between bouts of lethargy and brutality. And his kills are sloppier than when he got poisoned.”

North stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she says. “I did not travel all this way for you to vent about your brother. I have the other heartbroken pair at home, and someone needs to watch him before he portals himself to somewhere stupid.”

Nines shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

“Connor’s not himself,” Nines says. “He doesn’t listen to Hank. He ignores Sumo’s existence. He hasn’t talked—well, _ really _ talked to me in a while—It’s all abnormal. It might not seem obvious, but Connor’s an affectionate, and tactile person. He was born two minutes earlier and he hasn’t stopped hovering since. Until now, North,” Nines corrects himself. “Until _ now _. That’s worrying.”

“Affectionate?” North asks, eyebrow raised. “Your brother Connor?” 

“Yes, my brother Connor. He’s a sentimental sap.”

“Are you sure Connor’s not just keeping secrets from you? Connor almost stabbed Markus when Markus first hugged him.”

“Amanda was a devout disciple of the School of the Cat’s old doctrine—that _ is _ Connor’s way of hugging,” Nine says. “He doesn’t _ hold _things secret from me. That’s not how we are.”

North bites her bottom lip, although she still looks unconvinced. 

“Listen,” Nine says. “We picked up a werewolf contract. The contract wasn’t completely honest. The werewolf slaughtered some humans from the village because those same humans tried to sell a local pack’s cub to an underground fighting ring. The werewolf hasn’t caused any chaos since, and we had to extract this information out from the other villagers.”

“Sounds like a broken contract to me,” North says. “But I don’t see why—”

“Connor almost slaughtered the werewolf on the spot.”

North gapes. “_What? _”

Connor can be ruthless—that’s a given with all witchers—but he is reasonable and, in Nine’s opinion, more compassionate than most. He has a soft spot for canines or lupins, in particular, after Sumo.

“That _ never _ happens,” Nines says. “ _ Most werewolves can be reasoned with. _ That’s what he always said. Now, he turns around, and almost decapitates one without trying to reason with it, acting without _ some _hesitation and regret? That’s not Connor.”

Nines rummages through his bag and hands her a scroll. North unrolls it to find a list of symptoms—probably Connor’s—and a list of ingredients. Her eyes roam fast enough to draw a split second conclusion.

“My brother is wasting away and he’s been doing so for weeks now,” Nines says.

“You think this is a case of possession,” North says. 

“He hasn’t been the same since he and Markus fought the djinn. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“I don’t doubt you, but there has never been a case of djinn possession recorded in history. In this realm _ or _the elven realm.”

Nines shrugs. “There’s always a first for everything.”

“Markus didn’t mention that anything was out of the ordinary when he recounted the whole situation to us.” North hesitates. “Well… other than…”

“We both know that’s probably the most absurd thing about this situation,” Nine says. “I’ve known him all his life, and in the short time Connor has known Markus before their first djinn… In what universe would Connor ever reject Markus?”

Nines knows Connor best, even more than Markus and Hank. Just like Connor knows him best. Connor’s always brought Nines back from tipping over the edge of their more apathetic, bloodthirsty instinct, and now Nines is doing the same. They’re two halves of a whole, so trust Nines when he says that something is _ treacherously _ wrong_— _

“You want to know what I think?” Nine says. “I think, knowing that it couldn’t be captured because its master never truly completed his last wish, the djinn latched on to the nearest body as a vessel. Possibly siphoning off of Connor and the magic he surrounds himself with.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin in drawing the djinn out,” North says. “I’ll need to consult the Lodge of Sorceresses. They might even need to see Connor for themselves. They’ll be busy, however, with the witch hunts in Novigrad.”

“If you need someone to cut a swathe,” Nine offers.

North chuckles. “We’re trying a quiet coup first, but thank you. If we ever need a heavy hand, I’m sure Markus would—” North breaks off. “Oh god, Markus. I need to tell him.”

“Is he in Novigrad as well?”

"Yes,” North says. “He’s helping magical creatures escape the borders.”

“What if I brought Connor there? Would that make things easier?”

“Despite the recipe for melodrama? Immensely,” North says. “Lucy would be of particular help, but she’s currently injured and healing herself.”

Nines nods. “I’ll bring Hank along as well. He’s good at diverting attention.” Then, for the first them in what feels like years, Nines drops his shoulders in relief. 

“Hey,” North says, her voice is gentle. “You keeping yourself together, over there?”

His mind is already whizzing with the logistics. Even if Connor’s a ruthless shell of himself, he still sticks by Nine’s side like a leech. 

“I’m better now,” Nines says. “Now that there’s plan going forward.” 

“He’s bounced back from worse things,” North says. “We’ll get him back, Nines. The whole of Jericho won’t rest until we do.”

Nines exhales. “We will,” Nines says. “And once I get him back…” 

He huffs, his voice is dark, thick, and thunderous. He knows from the way North hardens her jaw. 

“The djinn will get its due,” Nines says. “It doesn’t matter if it can’t feel pain. I’ll find a way and the djinn will regret taking my brother away from me.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the 'magic lost' part. I've labelled this as complete as there's (some) closure at the end, and I'm not sure if I'll ever get to writing the other half. 
> 
> Assume that Connor gets his memory back through Markus's help. Assume mega angst happens as Markus tries to help Connor even tho Connor feels nothing for him (or at all really). Assume that they finally get their happy ending when the djinn is banished and Connor feels the same!!
> 
> I was ready for this fic to be all fluffy and sweet BUT THEN Magic's like "What a b o u t...." and proceeded to angst up the whole place until this fic wrote itself. [And Yennefer looks so beautiful when Geralt breaks her heart.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0Jp3aNcW3Q) Wouldn't Markus look equally as beautiful with his heart broken? HAHHAHA
> 
> So in short, Blame [Magic.](https://twitter.com/megickitt)


End file.
